Twenty three hours
by Chapin CSI
Summary: Slash, drama, romance. A prequel to Forever. This story is set a few months before Grissom’s death. Gil and Greg look back on their lives together. They talk about vacations they took and people they met, including G. Stefani and R. Waters from Pink Floyd


TWENTY THREE HOURS

Slash, romance, drama. Be prepared to cry.

Important: This story is set a few months before Grissom's death, and it's a prequel to Forever, which was set a year _after_ Grissom's death.

In 'Forever,' I unwittingly gave Grissom the kind of death he hoped for, according to his own words in Way To Go: "I'd like to be diagnosed with cancer… have time to prepare."

Twenty Three hours is about the aftermath of that cancer diagnosis. Gil's not afraid of death, but he is not wholly reconciled with it. In the meantime, he and Greg find solace in their memories -memories that include the vacations they took and the people they met, including Gwen Stefani, and Roger Waters from Pink Floyd.

* * *

Gil Grissom opened his eyes wide in surprise. Something hurt, deep inside -

The pain woke him up at four O'clock each morning, regular as clockwork, yet it never failed to startle him. There was always a brief moment of confusion in which he wondered _what the hell is happening? _followed by one of disbelief, because, even though he recognized the symptoms, he just couldn't believe something like this could be happening to him...

But denial never lasted for long, and soon he remembered the doctors, and he remembered the tests, and he remembered the words in Latin that put a name to his affliction. It wasn't a bad nightmare; it was real. Something terrible was happening to him –to them, actually, because it involved his partner, too.

Grissom turned his head to look at the man lying beside him. To his relief, Greg was still asleep.

After a moment, Gil looked at the ceiling. In the dim light, he saw the frescoes painted on it.

He remembered everything now. They weren't home. They weren't even in Las Vegas; they were in Venice, and this was their first night in the city. They would spend three days there, and after that they'd take a plane to -

But the pain interrupted his thoughts.

It was starting to feel as if something -his tumor, the hungry cannibal- was biting at his insides.

He needed to get out bed, now.

If he stayed any longer he would not be able to move at all, and then he would have to ask Greg for help. He didn't want to do that. He'd managed on his own so far, and that's how he wanted it to be.

Grissom took a deep breath and, doing his best not to disturb the sleeping man next to him, he rolled out of bed. The pain made him wince but he didn't voice his discomfort. He took a couple of deep breaths, and then he hesitantly walked to the door. The room was dark and cluttered with furniture, but somehow he managed to reach the bathroom without any mishap.

By the time he closed the door and turned on the lights, his hands were shaking. He took a deep breath to steady himself. It took him a moment but finally he felt confident enough to go through his morning routine: Open bathroom cabinet, take black leather bag, open bag, take white plastic bottle, uncap it, take a pill and put it under his tongue, put the cap back on the bottle..

And then lean on the white marble lavatory and wait for the pill to dissolve, while silently urging it to and work its magic faster.

Grissom glanced at his face in the mirror. Under the stark light of the bathroom, he really looked his age. He had lost weight in the last couple of weeks and his skin was starting to sag. And while his bushy beard helped to conceal some, there was nothing he could do about the new wrinkles around his eyes and the vertical groove on his forehead that seemed to deepen because of the pain.

It was at this time of the night, while waiting for the pain to subside, that Grissom's thoughts inevitably turned to the subject of death.

This was the last summer he'd ever enjoy.

There was a tumor in his body, and it was inoperable. His doctors had talked about breakthrough surgical procedures, but under Gil's skillful questioning they ended up admitting that the surgery wasn't meant to cure him. The end-result of any operation would be to remain in the hospital under the best medical care but without any hope of recovery.

Grissom didn't want to end his days as a living specimen, not even for the benefit of medical students. There were limits to his love of teaching.

Instead, Gil elected a palliative course that would keep the main symptoms in check for an indeterminate period of time, while allowing him to live his life to the fullest. Rather than staying home waiting for nature to take its course, Grissom he'd decided to travel.

Grissom was not afraid of death.

He'd always seen death as yet another step in a road that had no end, only turns. It helped that he looked at his disease from a scientist's point of view; he was even documenting the whole process -his sole concession to the doctors involved in his case. He wanted others to learn something from his own experience. He wanted to learn from it too.

Actually, it was old age that Grissom was more afraid of. The idea of growing old and enfeebled -someone to be diapered and fed –truly terrified him. He didn't want to become a burden to anybody.

He'd always known when to back down.

He'd stepped down from his job as CSI supervisor long before he was due to do so. He left the crime-fighting to the younger generations while he was still at the top of his game, and he never regretted it. In the years following his retirement, Gil had done research, written several books and he'd traveled, too. He'd led a very full life, and he'd shared it with Greg, which made it all the better -

Grissom closed his eyes abruptly.

It always happened like this; whenever he thought of Greg, his composure failed him. Thinking of Greg made him wish that he could defeat this –this _thing_ growing inside him. It made him wish for more time -'one more Christmas,' or 'one more Winter, one more Spring…'

Grissom chided himself for being unreasonable. After all, he and Greg had been together far longer than anyone expected, (including himself), back when they started their relationship. Still, he couldn't help it. He wished for more time, he wished for a different diagnosis, he wished... He wished he could make amends somehow.

The truth was, Grissom felt bad about leaving Greg. Grissom had few regrets in life, but the biggest was the fact that he'd inadvertently isolated Greg. They'd turned to each other for love and friendship, leaving little space for others.

Over the years, only a handful of friends had remained close to them. Grissom, who was essentially a loner, didn't mind and Greg never complained. But the number of friends had dwindled over the years -some had died, and some had moved away- and it was now that Gil felt their absence the most.

He was leaving Greg alone.

There was some comfort in the fact that Greg was still young; surely, he would get on with his life. He'd find friends –he'd find _a_ friend. Grissom fervently hoped so.

But in the meantime, Greg kept making sacrifices. He'd vowed to be there for Grissom no matter what, and that meant taking an indeterminate leave of absence in order to come along on this trip. One day Grissom's illness would force him to go back home, and Greg would follow. And since Grissom was determined not to die at a hospital, then Greg would probably have to come face to face with his lover's illness.

Grissom sometimes wondered if he'd made the right decision. Dying at home was different from dying at a hospital, even with round-the-clock nursing care. At a hospital, nurses kept visitors at bay but at home, nothing would keep Greg from being there if he chose so. And he would. Grissom knew that. The one time they'd discussed it, Greg had said, 'I'll be there, Gil.' And while Grissom was talking about hiring a private nurse, Greg kept saying, 'Yeah, whatever. But I'll be there.'

Grissom didn't want Greg's last memory of him to be that of a dead, cold body, but he couldn't help feeling comforted too. And guilty.

There was little Gil could do to compensate Greg for these sacrifices. All he could do was ensure that Greg was financially secure by leaving him the royalties from all of his published works, with the exception of Ento Man, the quirky character he'd created for Archie's comic publishing company. Those were going to charity.

Greg didn't know any of this yet.

It was just one of many things Grissom needed to discuss with Greg but kept putting aside. At four in the morning, Gil would admit the need to talk about the future, but once the sun was up, he just couldn't bring himself to do it. They always found other things to talk about.

Time was just too precious to invest it on anything but ways to enjoy it. That's why they'd come to Venice; it was the first stop in a tour that would take them to some of the cities they had visited through the years.

This last thought encouraged him to leave the bathroom, even though he was still in pain. He was in Venice, for God's sake. Surely there were better things to see than his tired old face.

Besides, things weren't that bad, considering.

He could afford his medication -that was a lot to be grateful for. And he could still manage with small doses. The only drawback was the terrible aftertaste but hey, he wasn't complaining. That's what Tic Tacs were for. He kept a stash in the bathroom cabinet –peppermint, cinnamon, orange; every color and every flavor.

Chewing on a cinnamon Tic Tac, Grissom quietly returned to the bedroom. He didn't get back into bed, though. Standing upright somehow lessened his pain.

He walked to the nearest window and lifted a curtain to peer outside. It was still dark but some things were visible under the moonlight; the gondolas bobbing gently in the water, the dome of an old church, and farther away, the tops of the trees at the piazza.

Gil smiled. He loved Venice. He loved old cities with rich pasts.

Visiting Venice was a bittersweet experience, though. The water level was rising at an alarming rate, and a part of the city he'd seen fifteen years ago was irretrievably lost now.

The city was dying.

A rustle of bedclothes interrupted his thoughts. A lamp was turned on.

It took Grissom a couple of seconds to rearrange his features into a pleasant mask before he turned.

Greg was sitting up in bed, squinting at him.

"Hey," he said.

"Hey, Greg" Gil replied, a bit too perkily.

"You ok?"

"Yeah." Grissom lied easily, "I just wanted to see the sun rise."

"Oh. Good idea."

The silence that followed said more than words ever would. The truth was, Greg knew why Gil was up. They'd discussed it at length at the doctor's office and later, when they planned their trip. Greg knew that pain was forcing Gil out of bed. He knew that some day, Gil would need higher doses, several times a day.

But he pretended not to know this…

…Just as Gil pretended not to know that Greg sometimes got up at midnight to cry.

Greg had needed an outlet for his grief right from the start. He had been strong for Gil's sake, but at the end of the day it was all too much for him to bear alone. So, at midnight, he left their bed and went to the kitchen. Alone, he quietly grieved.

Gil had found out by accident one night when he woke up and saw Greg's side of the bed empty. Half-expecting to find Greg watching TV or drinking some warm milk, Grissom went looking for him. He'd found Greg sitting at the dinner table, staring at the seat opposite him –Grissom's seat. Greg's back was to Gil, but his shoulders were shaking. He was crying.

Not wanting to intrude, Grissom had gone back to bed.

They'd never discussed any of this. It was as if they believed that as long as they didn't talk about it, reality could be kept at bay. They were strong for each other, but they couldn't help needing some quiet time to grieve on their own.

And now they were in Venice.

"So," Greg said, "Can you see anything yet?"

"See what?"

"The sun."

"Oh," Gil lifted the curtain again. "Not yet." He said. The pain was subsiding, and so he ventured a few more words, "It's too early, I guess."

"Can't wait to go out and see the city, huh?" Greg smiled indulgently. "Do you remember the first time we were here?"

Grissom remembered, all right. They'd been lovers for just over a month when they first came to Venice. They'd never even been out on a date, but the trip felt like some sort of honeymoon.

"We came to a convention -" Gil said, reminiscing.

"And we ended up playing hooky every evening," Greg finished with a chuckle.

They discovered that unlike Americans, Europeans took no notice of two guys holding hands or being openly affectionate in public. Gil and Greg reveled in the experience.

No wonder they went out every evening while he rest of their fellow CSIs remained in the cramped auditorium, listening to badly-translated conferences.

Grissom wanted to stroll down the streets again. His energy level was good, but he knew he'd have to take it easy. He only hoped he would not have to resort to taxis to go from piazza to piazza.

"I like this hotel," Greg said, interrupting Gil's thoughts. He leant back on the pillow and stretched his arms, as if he were measuring the bed's width. "These beds are big enough for two." He looked up, "Remember Provence?"

"Ah, yes." Grissom said longingly. "The wines-"

"The wines?" glared Greg, "_That_'s what you remember?"

"Well, yeah." Gil replied, and then, just to tease Greg, he added, "And the truffles, of course."

"That's not very romantic -"

"_And_ I also remember the old Chambre d'hotes we stayed in, and the bed they gave us." Gil added pointedly.

"The one that was so narrow that we were forced to spoon each other all night long -"

"I didn't mind," Grissom said, "In fact, I _loved_ that bed."

Greg smiled.

Grissom smiled back. He cautiously took a deep breath and noticed that the pain was almost gone. He walked back to the bed and gingerly sat on the edge.

Greg reached out to rub his face.

"You ok?" he asked.

"Yeah." Gil said. And as he looked at Greg, he noticed the concern in the younger man's eyes. Greg rarely let his own fears show, but this time he didn't mask them fast enough. All of a sudden, Grissom noticed the shadows under Greg's eyes, and the hollow cheeks. Gil's illness was taking its toll on the younger man, too.

It wasn't fair.

"I'm fine, Greg," Grissom said gently. And to reassure Greg, he got back under the covers. He turned on his side and forced himself to smile.

Greg turned on his side too. They stared at each other for a moment.

"If you had to choose a favorite vacation, which would you choose?"

"Venice." Grissom said.

"Technically, it wasn't a vacation," Greg pointed out, "What about our trip to Tikal?"

Grissom smiled faintly.

"Nice place, but a military coup erupted while we were there, remember?"

"Oh, yeah." Greg frowned, "But if that was bad, then what about those two weeks we spent in Minnesota, freezing our asses while waiting in vain for the fish to bite?"

Grissom rolled his eyes.

"I can't believe you're still sore about that," he scoffed, "So, we froze our asses in Minnesota," he admitted, "We _baked_ them in New York the next year. Remember? And all because Mr. Nostalgic just had to see Gwen Stefani on her Farewell tour-"

"Oh, _I_ was Mr. Nostalgic?" Greg replied.

"Yeah."

"What about a certain CSI supervisor who insisted that we go to London during the worst European summer in decades just to attend the 30th anniversary concert of Pink Floyd's The Wall ?"

"Hey, we got to witness an important moment in history!" Grissom replied. "People from all over the world came to this event -"

"It was impressive," Greg admitted, "All those middle-aged guys crying like babies by the end of the concert... And you were jumping up and down like a kid after Roger Waters gave you his autograph -"

"I wasn't jumping up and down-"

Greg smiled at Grissom's indignation.

"Yes, you were," Greg said indulgently. "And I've got the pictures to prove it. It was kind of embarrassing," he teased.

"Oh, please," Grissom scowled, "This from the same guy who kissed the ground that Gwen Stefani had just trodden on?"

"I did not!" Greg said indignantly, "How many times do I have to tell you? I was following her down the hallway and I stumbled-"

"Sure, you did." Grissom said skeptically.

Defiantly, Greg held his gaze, but after a moment he reluctantly gave up.

"Oh, ok, I admit it," he muttered, "But hey, it was her goodbye tour-"

"The second one," Grissom taunted.

"Yeah," Greg said ruefully, "By the third time she said goodbye, I didn't care anymore."

Grissom noticed that the pain was completely gone now. Confidently, he slid closer to Greg and wrapped an arm around him. After a moment, he laid his head on Greg's chest.

"We've had fun, over the years," Greg said, "But you're right, of all the places we've visited, I think Venice is the best. I remember the first time we went out on a gondola -"

"I knew he'd mention that," Grissom muttered under his breath.

"The gondolier warned you not to get up, but you did." Greg teased, "You started to sing 'O Sole Mio' and then you lost your balance and fell into the water."

Grissom glanced at him.

"And you laughed your ass off." he glared.

"It was nervous laughter," Greg explained, "Besides, I dove in after you, remember? We both stank like a sewer, afterwards."

"We concocted a story for our colleagues-" Grissom reminisced, "But I don't think they believed it."

They were silent for a moment.

"I'll never forget it," Greg said wistfully, "You, singing in Italian -"

"Very bad Italian," Gil amended. "I think the gondolier did that sudden turn on purpose, to make me sit down and shut up."

"You were so in love with me -" Greg added quietly.

"I was," Gil admitted. Then, after a moment, he added, "I still am." Then he closed his eyes and tightened the hold he had on Greg. "I always will be."

Greg's breathing faltered a little. Tears welled up in his eyes, but he forced them back. He would not break down in front of Gil. There was a time for that –at midnight. A single tear rolled down, leaving a scalding path that ended in his ear.

Grissom didn't notice any of this. He was distracted by the sound of Greg's heart beating under his ear. That heart had given them a couple of scares in the past... But it was beating now; alive… Alive.

"So," Greg said in a lighter tone, "Which was your favorite trip?"

Grissom opened his eyes.

"I enjoyed them all," he said, "But my favorite's the one that started when you said you loved me," he paused for a moment. "Greg? Did I ever say 'Thank you'? You know, for giving me your life?" he didn't wait for the answer. "_Thank you._"

A year ago, Greg would have teased him for being overly sentimental. But tonight, he wordlessly wrapped his arms around Grissom and held on tightly.

After a moment, Grissom lifted his head just enough to look at Greg. Then, moving slowly, he got close enough to kiss him, lightly at first, then more passionately.

"Oooh," Greg muttered between kisses, "My old man is getting frisky."

"Oh, yeah."

Grissom often wondered whether they put something extra in the pills he took –an aphrodisiac or one of those Viagra-like compounds that had been declared illegal years ago. Not that it mattered. Nothing mattered except the chance to live moments like this.

He was learning to measure life in a new way, now. Not in years or weeks or even days, but in units of twenty-three hours each. There was a certainty that comforted him. He didn't know about tomorrow; he only knew that for the next twenty-three hours, everything would be all right.

For twenty-three hours, they would enjoy Venice; they would walk hand in hand, eat their favorite treats -lemon granita, espresso and biscotti- and take pictures, lots of pictures.

Together, they would mourn the lost palazzos, and together, they would marvel at the resilience of the people in Venice, who didn't dwell on the fact that their city was slowly and inexorably sinking, but simply loved and treasured what they still had.

Grissom could relate to that.

The future was uncertain, but he had the present. He had _twenty three hours_. How many kisses could he fit in? How many times could he say 'I love you'? How many hours could he spend in silence, simply listening to Greg?

He couldn't imagine anyone luckier or happier than him.

Grissom sang into Greg's ear:

CHE BELLA COSA È NA IURNATA 'E SOLE  
N'ARIA SERENA DOPPO NA TEMPESTA!  
PE' LL'ARIA FRESCA PARE GIÀ NA FESTA...  
CHE BELLA COSA NA JURNATA 'E SOLE

It was O Sole Mio.

Greg smiled.

"What does that mean?"

"I have no idea." Grissom quipped. "But it sounds romantic."

* * *

THE END 


End file.
